


Insomniac

by hitlikehammers



Category: Lost
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-13
Updated: 2009-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders sometimes if it feels so good because he wants it to; so right, because he needs it to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insomniac

**Author's Note:**

> Desperate!Jack is one of my favorite kinds, and I kinda wanted to give him something to hold onto. Thus - this little bit of fic.

There is a dog down the street that barks in time with the traffic light at the corner. The sound mingles with the rhythmic fall of rain - the metallic pang of each singular drop jarring, explosive before the fallout trickles down, soft and almost sensual as the individual streams dance and converge in the gutter, yet no less profound then the detonation, the impact itself. The window is cracked on the opposite wall, and the shrill hiss of the breeze sifting through is muffled by the drapes; where the curtains part, he can see the shivering raindrops caught on the windowsill, wavering against the lamplight that overpowers the moon. When he breathes, the taste of sex in the room is accompanied by something cleaner, something dewy and fresh that swirls harsh and biting in his lungs for an instant, and he shivers as his naked torso slides from beneath the sheets, the bare flesh teased with goosebumps everywhere, except where a warm hand lies draped over his stomach from across the mattress. He watches that hand for the longest of moments, noticing the jagged edges of the nails, the crinkle of the knuckles, the circumference of the wrist and just how languidly it molds against him - soft like silk and just as pliant, just as graceful.

These are things he never would have noticed before.

He feels the press of each fingertip into the muscles of his abdomen with acute precision, and his eyes flutter shut at the impossible warmth that sinks into him through each ridge of fingerprint, each line of palm; skin to skin like fire, like the sun. Watching the backs of his eyelids, he sees so much more with his eyes closed - sees what that hand does to him, the way it tightens his chest and clenches his heart and sends his blood running a little bit thinner, a little bit quicker through his veins - louder in his ears - because no matter how many nights he wakes half-way through to find that touch upon him, it always feels new; a first kiss and a first fuck and the first hesitant whisper of something more than convenience from lips that always say less than they mean, impossibly concentrated in the simple laying on of hands.

He knows himself; knows he romanticizes and summarizes and tends to neglect the pitfalls until he finds himself tumbling into them without anyone waiting to catch him, but it feels different this time - feels right, for once. He wonders sometimes if it feels so good because he wants it to; so right, because he needs it to, but somehow he knows that this... this isn’t about catching him before he falls; this is about keeping him close enough to stop him from falling in the first place, held tight against the chest next to him so that every rise and fall of it is etched against his spine like a memory. He knows that this isn’t perfect, knows that _they_ aren’t perfect - together or apart - but fuck all if it doesn’t feel like it is, like it could be; like the two of them against one another, hot and sweat-slick and breathless and sated, could be everything Jack has never even dared to want out of every moment, every breath. When they are lying next to each other, nothing is out of place, nothing is left wanting; he feels full and satisfied and pathetically vibrant even in the dark - love-struck like a boy half his age, lovesick in a way he’d never admit.

He needs them to work, to fit; he needs this one to be _the_ one. He refuses to settle for anything less.

He rolls over on his side, tracing the line of jaw, the slope of nose and the dip of slightly-parted lips with eyes that can scarcely blink. He doesn’t feel tired, but he yawns nonetheless, lowering himself back against the pillows just a little bit closer to the warm body at his side than before, so close now that the tip of his nose falls against the globe of his lover’s shoulder, his eyelashes flickering against skin as they open and close, flames in the blackness, separating the actual, physical proof that James was still beside him from the knowledge that lay deeper, growing stronger with every morning he awoke to the realization that the infamous Sawyer hadn’t made him his latest con after all, and every late night that drew the stress of the day from his racing heart like poison from a wound as his name, rough and vulnerable and beautiful, wrenched harsh from those lips, the strangled twang of his accent ringing in the vowels - he isn’t alone anymore, and deep down, he’s beginning to believe it.

And while the fear of being wrong is something he isn’t entirely sure he’ll ever be rid of, the feel of James’ strong arm hooking around him, drowsy and unconscious as he pulls Jack closer in his sleep, is enough to make him forget, just for now.


End file.
